


caution: friendship, handle carefully

by Kangoo



Category: John Wick (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crack-ish, Friendship, Implied Relationships, Other, Silent Conversations, Two guys sitting at a bar table five feet apart cuz they're not gay, or: i love love but this is about friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-07-25 18:21:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20030263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kangoo/pseuds/Kangoo
Summary: Frank Castle and John Wick are friends, Santino is a nuisance and Karen tries to help





	caution: friendship, handle carefully

**Author's Note:**

> meanwhile, in an alternate universe where santino tried 'talking' before 'blowing up john's house' so they're still friends... ish.
> 
> john might be a tiny bit ooc? he just. speaks a little bit too much. but there's only so many times i can write 'he grunts' in a paragraph

Frank doesn't have that many friends left from service. Or before that. Doesn't have many friends left, period.

But he does have one number, scratched in an uneven hand on the back of an old receipt. "If you ever need help," muttered with an East European accent that never truly faded as the paper is pressed in the palm of his hand. "If you want to talk."

Frank was headed for the kind of mission you come back from with a hole in your file, the kind that wasn't so much redacted as burnt from records. John was headed home.

"Never took you for a talker, Wick," he says in a way that means, _thank you_.

John had shrugged and hadn't said 'you're welcome' because he didn't need to, and that was that.

It's been years. Frank isn't even sure John kept the same number.

He dials it anyway.

It rings, and rings, and rings, long enough he expects to be redirected to an answering machine any second now. But Then-

A click and a voice on the other end of the receiver, gruff, saying, "Yeah?"

"John," he greets with an odd sense of relief. "It's Frank. Castle. Wanna grab a beer sometimes?"

There's a long silence. There usually are, with John. The guy never says anything without deliberation. Then, finally, "Yeah."

They meet up at Josie's. The booze is terrible and there's a dead rat slowly mummifying in a corner but there aren't any nice places where Frank feels comfortable going to. Nobody will call the cops on him here. Worst things he can stumble on is a firecracker reporter, and at this point he's half hoping for it, even if he won't admit it.

Still he feels a bit guilty when John walks in, looking like his suit cost more than the entire bar and every dusty bottles in it. Not for long though. John doesn't seem to mind it himself. He eyes the room, something like curiosity or wariness in his expressionless face before his gaze settles on Frank. Recognition flashes briefly in those dark eyes of his and he joins him, sits opposite to him on the wobbly chair. Frank chose the booth in the furthest corner so they can both have their back to the wall as long as they don’t sit opposite of each other, out of habit. John immediately goes back to watching the room and Frank knows, from past experience, that he's cataloging each gun poorly hidden under a hoodie, each probable weapon. Frank did the same moments ago.

It takes a few seconds during which Frank stays quiet, watching him watch the patrons of the bar. Then John blinks, panther-slow, dismissing them all as noon-threats, and turns to him.

"Hello."

"Hey," Frank greets, pushing a glass of Josie's least shitty whiskey toward him. "You look good. Civilian life treating you well I see."

John takes his drink and grunts, noncommittal. "Can't say the same of you," he says, making the barest hint of a nod toward Frank's busted, bruised face.

Frank drinks his whiskey and makes a _you don't know the half of it _kinda sound. John nods in understanding and takes a sip of his own glass. Gotta hand it to the guy: he doesn't even bat an eye at the taste. Weaker men outright spat it back.

It's Josie's best whiskey, which makes it a solid 2 on the greater scale of whiskeys.

They don't say say anything else, for the full hour they stay at Josie's, sipping their drinks. Somehow neither of them can find the energy to talk. But it's... Nice. To sit with someone he knows, someone he's friendly with, and just enjoy some casual friendship like drinking in silence and resolutely not talking about the many way their lives went to shit since they left the army.

John wears a gun in a shoulder holster, hidden under his perfectly tailored jacket. Frank has a gun strapped to his side, barely covered by his coat. Happy, well adjusted people don't do that.

He wonders, distantly, how it went wrong for John. If it went something like it did for him. He doesn't ask.

He gets his answer, eventually, because they keep meeting on a semi-regular basis. Sometimes Frank is away on a job, and sometimes John goes radio silent for a while with no warning. But every week they're both in town, without fail, Frank's text proposing a night out will be replied with a simple "OK" and John walking into Josie's at 9p.m sharp.

He never learns to dress to the occasion (or lack thereof).

And at some point, they start talking. About nothing, at first – the weather and national news and Rome, when it turns out they've both been there before. Even though John gets a weird look on his face at the memory. Then the good old times, when Frank figures it's better than thinking about what came after. They both have fond memories of their drill sergeant – terrifying as she was, in comparison to the war she was a real sweetheart.

And then one day Frank has a bad day and gets really, really drunk and says, "My family's dead."

John's face falls – the first real expression he sees the guy make. His brows furrow together and his mouth twists and when he says, "I'm sorry," he even sounds like he means it.

And then Frank makes a dumb choice and asks, "How's your wife?" Hoping that someone else's marital joy can banish the fog of misery hanging over the day.

Because he's seen the golden bang around John's finger, so much like his own. It's not a stretch to guess he got married.

John's face- closes off. His eyes darken even as he looks down into his drink.

"She died," he says, short.

Frank hisses through his teeth. "Shit. Sorry."

John slams back his drink and doesn't say anything more.

They still meet up the next week. 

And the one after that.

And somehow... They open up about it. Frank, first, full of righteous rage and drunken inhibition. Then John, quieter, clipped replies to questions he doesn't dare ask.

"It was cancer," he says when Frank whispers he lost them in a shooting, and,

"Everything I did- to be with her," 

And,

"She made me a better man."

"Cheers to that," Frank says, blinking away the tears he refuses to admit are in his eyes.

And then one time it's John who offers information instead of reacting to Frank's monologue. He stares at the crowd, or what passes as such in Josie's, and says,

"She left me a dog. So I wouldn't be alone."

By the tone with which he says it, he was fond of the animal, and it didn't end well.

"What happened?"

"Guy killed it for a car." 

Not with: _for_. Frank nods and carefully doesn't ask for more details. John has always be the scariest motherfucker he knew. He doesn't know what happened to the guy responsible and he doesn't want to know. Pretty sure he got what was coming for him, anyway: he trusts John to do that much.

Turns out they have lot of stuff in common, once they got to talking – Frank doing most of the work on that, for once. They both have a rescue pit bull (Frank doesn't mention the context of the rescue in question). A love for guns and black clothes. Army background. A dead wife. 

And, as they're soon to find out, nosey friends.

Frank knows exactly what kind of man D'Antonio is from the first look he takes of the guy, even before he knows his name. Young, rich, beautiful, powerful, the kind that's born into power and grew up learning how to keep hold on it.

He also knows, immediately, that he's a mob boss – he has that look to him, too put together, too clean, a smile too sharp. Frank would bet anything that each and every of the thousand bucks worth of designer clothes this guy is wearing has been paid in blood money.

They exchange a look, John and him, and Frank is surprised to see John as relaxed as he was before the guy's arrival. A quirk of his eyebrows, quietly curious rather than wary, tells Frank he knows the guy – knows _what_ the guy is as well. He tilts his head slightly as the man sprawls next to him, both an acknowledgment of his arrival and a question toward Frank. 

_Can you let it be?_

Frank looks at John, the most dangerous man he's ever known and only sees the edge in his eyes, the predator glint that says he's ready for a fight whether or not he wants there to be one. Frank isn't sure he could take John back then, let alone the man he became. Isn't sure he wants to. 

Honestly he's just tired. Tired of the corruption, the mob's mark on every stone of this city, old friends getting their hands bloody for people barely more corrupt than their own government. He came here to drink with a friend. That's it.

He nods once, shortly. He'll let the mantel of the Punisher down, just this once. Mostly because he doesn't pick fights he has no way to win. He gets the feeling John is doing the same – putting down something far too heavy for his shoulders. The predatory glow goes out of his eyes and he becomes the same melancholy, quiet man Frank knew. The danger never goes out of the lines of his body. It doesn't leave Frank's, either. It sits, tense and ready, in his shoulders, down his arms, to the tip of his trigger finger resting lightly on the gun strapped to his thigh.

As a show of good faith he puts both his hands on top of the table. The mob boss looks an obnoxious mix of amused and satisfied as he watches the silent exchange. John politely pretends he couldn't kill Frank with the handful of napkins he's absently folding into little triangles. The atmosphere grows that kind of lightning storm anticipation, the air heavy with the stare of three killers eyeing each others. 

"What are you doing here?" John asks the guy, his voice quiet yet crystal clear despite the noise in the bar.

He shrugs, careless from the quirk of his smirk to the shift of his shoulders. He acts with the ease of a man perfectly sure of his own invincibility. He knows who's the most powerful person in the room, Frank realizes, and it's the one holding the leash of the most dangerous one.

What did John get himself into this time?

"I was in the neighborhood," he says, never mind that someone dressed like he is would never be caught dead in a neighborhood like this one. "I thought I would drop by, see how my favorite investment is doing." At John's dark look his smirk grows and he adds, "Not you, John. My family has a few businesses in the area, one of which I'm quite fond of. You're just a social call. Though you are my favorite _something_ alright."

John grunts and goes back to his drink. His 'friend' isn't going to drop it that easily, though.

"Aren't you going to introduce us?" He says, nodding to Frank.

"You're a grown man. Introduce yourself."

The man sighs like John is asking him a great favor. He turns to Frank. His smarmy smile doesn't quite make it to 'friendly', or even 'polite'. "Santonio D'Antonio," he says, offering him his hand. "I'm a friend of John's."

Well that's bullshit if he's ever heard it. 

"Frank," he replies, not bothering to appear welcoming. He doesn't shake D'Antonio's hand.

"Lovely." He drops his hand and throw his arm around John's shoulders instead. John tenses up at the touch then forces himself to relax. If he were anyone else, Frank bets he'd be rolling his eyes. "Tell me, how do you know each other? Did you serve together?"

The guy can't seem to take a hint. Frank grunts, noncommittal, and glances over his shoulder. If the guy brought any of his goons–

If he did, Frank doesn't know about it, because the first person he sees when he looks up isnt a mob enforcer. It's Karen.

She noticed him too, and is staring at him openly. He's sitting there, drinking with people who are obviously not law-abiding citizens. In hindsight it's weird enough to warrant some staring.

She mouths a word, her furrowed brow turning it into a question. _Frank?_

He looks away. Better not bring any attention to her. But she's... Hard to look away from. His eyes are drawn to her like she's a magnet. It's been a long time since they've seen each other.

When he focus back on her she's frowning. She mouths, _Intel?_

He darts a look at D'Antonio. The guy is busy pestering John into letting him take a sip of his drink, not paying any attention to Frank. He shakes his head minutely. Karen's frown deepens.

_Trouble?_

Another look at the best dressed duo of the room. John relents to D'Antonio insistence with something almost like humor in his dark eyes. D'Antonio gets all of three seconds to look smug before he takes a sip of Josie's least shitty whiskey. He splutters and grimaces, probably doesn't spit it back only out of personal pride. John snatches the glass before he can spill it, cobra-quick.

Frank looks back at Karen. His eyes widen when he sees her walk to the table, spine iron straight. He glares, hoping to convey how bad an idea that is. She ignores him completely even as she sits right next to him, primly folding her legs and all but slamming her drink on the table. She smiles her reporter smile, her eyes jumping from Santonio "obvious mobster" D'Antonio and John "concealed carry is a fashion statement" Wick.

And then, because hanging out with Red has apparently turned her brain to mush, she extends her hand to them and say, "Hi, I'm Karen Page. Frank might have told you about me?"

"I can't say he has," D'Antonio says pleasantly as he shakes her hand. "But I've only been there for a moment."

John throws him a look above D'Antonio's head while the two are busy pretending to be polite with each other. There's a question in the tilt of his head.

_Friend of yours? _it seems to say.

In response he glares at D'Antonio, daring him to keep his grubby, mafioso hand on Karen for a single additional second. D'Antonio pretends he can't see it. 

John offers her his hand next. She seems surprised by his quiet voice, at odd with his dangerous exterior, and the way she looks at him afterward is more cautious than outright suspicious.

Great. 'Karen and John getting along' is one nightmare scenario he hadn't thought about. This woman has a gift for befriending dangerous people.

He can't find it in himself to begrudge her presence. She easily distracts D'Antonio from him, asking him about his accent and Italy and what he's doing so far from home. D'Antonio is a man who like to listen to himself talk, and though his hold on John doesn't relent he doesn't pay any more attention to the two silent men at the table.

It allows Frank some time to just... Look at Karen. It been a _really_ long time. She looks tired but unhurt, like maybe she got herself a survival instinct since the last time he saw her. Or maybe she just got better at getting in and out of trouble with minimal harm. Yeah, that's more likely, seeing how she's currently sitting across a mob boss and talking about the cultural differences between Italian and Italian-American cuisine.

John is doing the same opposite to him. His eyes track every movement D'Antonio makes with almost casual attention, like a cat watching the comings and goings of its humans. Frank wouldn't call his expression fond, but it's close enough that he doesn't know what to think of it. What the fuck happened in the last years for John to become friend with a _mob boss_?

Yeah. Pretty sure he doesn't want to know.

Frank and John drink quietly, both keeping an attentive eye on their respective unexpected tagalong. After maybe an hour, hour and a half, D'Antonio gets up.

"It's been a pleasure to meet you, miss Page... _Frank_," he says, then, to John, "Walk with me? "

It doesn't sound like a question. John doesn't take it as one. He rises after D'Antonio and, with a nod to the two of them, they leave.

"So that guy was absolutely a mobster, right?" Karen says after a bit.

Frank empties his drink in one long swallow and slam his glass on the table. "Yep," he says, dragging the word.

"And they're definitely fucking."

"Y- what?"

Karen gestures to the empty seats opposite to them. "That guy, Santino? Definitely fucking John. Or he really, _really_ wants to."

"Yeah, I think you've had enough."

"Don't tell me how to live my life," she says. She gulps her drink down and adds, "But I'm gonna head out now."

He gets the nagging feeling she'd have left an hour earlier if he hadn't been there. Like she was rescuing him from D'Antonio. Pointless, but then again... She did work a small miracle in keeping him off Frank's back. 

His lips quirk in small fond smile. "I'll walk you to your car."

**Author's Note:**

> things john and frank have in common:
> 
> \- military background  
\- dead wife (who they loved a lot)  
\- black clothes  
\- pit bull buddy  
\- guns. so many guns  
\- roaring rampage of revenge  
\- excessive use of force on criminals  
\- utterly terrifying  
\- silent and stoic type


End file.
